


In All My Dreams I...

by helptheEXO



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Bliss Overdose, Genderless Deputy, Other, Reader!Insert, drug overdose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-29 18:23:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15078977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helptheEXO/pseuds/helptheEXO
Summary: You’re drowning, you’re suffocating.





	In All My Dreams I...

  You’re hot. You’re cold. You’re soaked to the bone. You feel like you’re drowning, there’s water in your eyes, in your nose, in your mouth. You gasp for air, but inhale water instead. When you open your eyes, all you see is blue. Blue, blue, blue. You’re swimming in blue. There’s something sparkling in the light. You tilt your head back, looking for the sun, for the water surface to break, so you can breathe. All you see is white, all you inhale is water. You choke on it, cough and gag and shake.

  Something touches you, warmth cradles your face. A firm pressure guiding your head back down.

  “You’re going to drown if you do that,” There’s a voice, it’s calm. Soft. Comforting.

  You blink your eyes open. All you see is blue.

  Blue, blue, blue.

   You’re dying. You must be dying. This is what death feels like.

  ( It’s more peaceful than you expected. )

  -

  You wake slowly. It’s warm, you feel too warm. The room spins and you feel like you’re sinking. Down, down, down, down into the softness beneath you.

  Carefully (slowly, so slowly), you open your eyes. The blue has been replaced with white.

  You’re no longer drowning. But you think you might be suffocating.

  A sound, a whimper. Yours.

  You don’t want to die, you still have so much to do… so much to save.

  You shut your eyes tight, murmur a prayer to a god you’ve never believed in.

  Something presses against your forehead, cool and dry.

  “Shhh, go back to sleep. I’ve got you.”

  That voice again. It’s gentle, wraps around your mind like an embrace. Comforting.

  Warm, warm, warm.

  You don’t want to sleep. But you do.

  ( You aren’t dying. )

  -

  The third time you wake, you feel sluggish, like you’ve been asleep for too long. There’s grit in your mouth, your lips feel dry and cracked and you lick them unconsciously, tasting blood. You are warm, too warm still, and you kick out with heavy legs, shoving off the blanket covering you, listening to it as it falls to the floor with a muffled thump.

  You’re in a bed, in a room. It’s unfamiliar to you, and you squint tiredly around, fighting the exhaustion that whispers to you to close your eyes and rest.

  There’s a table at the bedside. You stare at it until it comes into focus, until the book on it becomes recognizable.

  Fear shoots up your spine. Adrenaline rushes through you and suddenly you are not as tired.

  You stare at the Word of Joseph on the table and breathe shakily.

  You don’t remember getting to your feet, but suddenly you are upright. Your limbs feel heavy but you force them to work, tripping over the blanket on the floor, stumbling and slamming into a dresser.

  There’s not a thing about you that’s graceful or stealthy, but you don’t care. You need to go, you need to get back to Dutch’s bunker and recover. You need to be as far away from this situation as possible -

  The bedroom door opens. A woman stands there, expression stern.

  You know her, you’ve seen her once before. A church, a fight. The memories come to you slowly, through a fog.

  ( **Wrath** burns on your chest. )

  “I need to --” You fumble towards her, fingers catching on the doorframe as she stands still, stares up at you with unnatural calmness. How could she be so calm? Didn’t she know -- didn’t she know who you were?

  The world spins suddenly, the ground becomes uneven. You tip to one side, then the other. Your legs give out, knees crashing to the floor with a loud crack.

  Your last thought is how she’s looking thinner now. _Less round_.

 ( The thought makes you smile. )

  -

  The forth time you wake, you feel yourself. The world still comes to you slowly, sensations booting up like you were an old system. But it’s better than you had been before, and you lay there quietly, allowing the world to come to you.

  Your memories are fuzzy, unorganized. You think you might have drowned at one point, suffocated at another. You remember the heat, the cold, the world spinning and your body failing you.

  ( Your knees **hurt**. )

  There’s a line of warmth against your front, your cheek is pressed into something soft. It’s moving, gentle up and down motions that at first remind your addled brain of a boat at sea.

  ( Up and down, the little boat goes, bobbing with the current. You feel like the boat, lost at sea, but at peace. )

  When your eyes open, you see a wide expanse of skin. Tattoos come into focus. Birds. Beyond it, the rough raising of skin in a scar, words carved into flesh.

  Your eyes close. Your sleepy mind provides the word etched into that skin.

   **Sloth**.

  Your eyes snap open. Adrenaline rushes through you, and you jerk away, shoving at the body you were curled neatly against with too much force.

  You feel the sensation of falling, but them something grabs your hands, pulls you back into the soft bed.

  Joseph Seed blinks at you tiredly, his eyes sharp. Belatedly you realize that his sunglasses are off, and without the tinted lenses, his gaze is _too_ intense, too blue.

  ( You remember drowning in the same blue. )

  “You’re awake.” It seems redundant, that he says this, and your face twists in displeasure. He smiles faintly, a curl of his lip that exposes white canines. It’s a charming look, disarming. You furrow your brow and determinedly stare him in the eye, meeting his calmness with a look of disgruntlement. “How are you feeling?”

  You feel like shit. Your knees are aching, your head is pounding, and your mouth feels like the desert. But your lips form other words, gravely and low. You can’t remember the last time you had a drink.

  “Fine.” You flinch at the sound of your own voice, not recognizing it. Your eyes lower for a second, then flick back up, determined. “What happened?”

  Joseph’s grip on you loosens, and you pull away, to the opposite side of the bed of him, scooting as far back as you can. Though, there’s displeasure in his eyes, his expression does not change. Calm and warm, sympathetic.

  “You were found outside the compound. Jacob thinks you had a bad reaction to the Bliss.” Your expression twists to something angry as he tries to touch your shoulder, and he aborts the move halfway, dropping his arm between the two of you.

  Something about the motion, the sadness in his eyes then is funny to you. Joseph Seed has never shied away from touching you before. You almost laugh, but you swallow back amusement. You swallow back your bitterness too. You just stare at him until he sighs.

  “You were half mad when they found you. Sick. My flock brought you to me so you could heal.”

  “In your bed? _With you_ ?” Your eyes are narrow, the anger that rushes you is hot. He would do this, after everything he’s done, all the harm and hurt his family has handed out, he _would_ play the protector like he did nothing wrong.

  You breath in deep, count to ten, and when you exhale, you feel yourself calming.

  Throughout this, Joseph stares at you, blinking slowly. The epitome of calm sainthood.

  ( His calmness is contagious. The anger continues to recede even after your deep breath. The longer he stares at you, quietly, the better you begin to feel. You hate him in that moment, hate how he can be so soothing despite being the enemy. )

  “You would not rest.” He explains slowly, like he’s thinking of the best way to break this to you. “You kept crying out, clawing at anyone who got close.” His brow furrows, the beginnings of a frown starting to tip his lips. “You asked for me.”

  Bullshit.

  You inhale angrily, temper rising. But then it hits you, the faint memory of fingers in your hair, blunt nails scratching against your scalp. A warm voice washing over you, calming you as you plead for forgiveness. Forgiveness for not protecting them, for not saving your friends…

  Whatever anger you’d been about to spit at him dies in your throat, coming out weak. A whimper.

  Fingers card through your hair. Your eyes close at the touch and when Joseph pulls you back to him, you don’t protest or fight the movement.

  You sink into him like it’s where you belong. And you suppose, for a bit at least, it is.

  ( You’re drowning in too blue eyes, you’re suffocating in the warmth of a voice. But it’s a good death. )


End file.
